Chapter 3: The Secret Hidden Behind the Red Flowers
At 8:30 the following morning, I stood outside the Manhattan offices of Vale and Associates.
Rain slid down the glass windows.
Cars rushed past the curb, sending water across the pavement.
I had barely slept.
The night before, I had called the number on my grandmother's letter and spoken to a woman named Rebecca.
She confirmed that Harrison Vale was still representing the Evelyn Carter Trust.
She also told me something that made my knees weak.
The trust had been waiting for me to claim it for eight years.
Eight years.
My mother had known.
She had known about the inheritance, the studio, and the original collection.
And she had spent all that time making me believe I was nobody.
The receptionist looked up as I approached.
"Good morning. Do you have an appointment?""
"I'm here to see Harrison Vale.""
"Your name?""
"Nia Carter.""
Her expression changed slightly.
"Mr. Vale has been expecting you.""
She picked up the telephone.
A moment later, an older man appeared from the hallway.
He wore a charcoal suit, thin glasses, and a silver watch.
His hair was completely white.
"Nia?""
"Yes.""
He extended his hand.
"I'm Harrison Vale. I've been hoping you would come.""
We entered his office.
On the walls were framed photographs of fashion exhibitions, old newspaper articles, and several pictures of my grandmother.
One photograph caught my attention.
It showed Evelyn standing beside a young Harrison outside a small Manhattan storefront.
Above the door was a sign.
*CARTER ATELIER.*
I stepped closer.
"That was her studio?""
Harrison nodded.
"She built it from nothing.""
"Why did my mother tell me she never owned a business?""
He removed his glasses.
"Because your mother has spent most of her life trying to erase that chapter.""
He invited me to sit.
Then he opened a thick leather folder.
Inside were documents bearing my grandmother's signature.
"There are several matters you need to understand," he said.
I sat forward.
"Start with the dress.""
Harrison nodded.
"Your grandmother left a collection of designs and intellectual property in a protected trust. You were named as the sole beneficiary when you turned eighteen.""
I stared at him.
"Then why didn't I receive anything?""
"Because your mother contested the inheritance.""
My jaw tightened.
"On what grounds?""
"She claimed your grandmother lacked the mental capacity to make the transfer.""
"That's a lie.""
"I know.""
He slid a medical certificate across the desk.
My grandmother had been mentally competent when she signed the trust.
There were also witness statements.
One of them belonged to Harrison himself.
"The case remained unresolved because Denise repeatedly delayed the proceedings," he explained.
"Eventually, she withdrew her claim.""
"Why?""
Harrison studied me.
"Because we discovered the original business records.""
He placed another document in front of me.
It was a financial ledger.
The name Edward Whitmore appeared repeatedly.
So did Denise Carter.
My mother had transferred money from my grandmother's business account into an investment company.
That company had purchased the rights to several original designs.
And the owner of that company?
Edward Whitmore.
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
"Why would he still be involved?""
"Because he never returned the intellectual property.""
Harrison leaned back.
"Your grandmother spent years trying to recover it. She eventually discovered that several of her designs had been presented under other names.""
I thought of Brianna.
Of my mother adjusting the skirt of my gown.
Of Whitmore's phone call.
It was all connected.
Harrison opened another folder.
"This is where your dress becomes important.""
He removed a photograph of my gown.
It was a picture I had taken in the studio two weeks earlier.
The same red flowers.
The same beadwork.
The same delicate embroidery.
"Your grandmother created an original design called The Last Bloom," he explained.
"It was never publicly released. She intended it to be the centerpiece of her final collection.""
I looked at the photograph.
"That's what I called my gown.""
Harrison nodded.
"Because you recreated her original vision.""
I swallowed.
"Does that mean she owns the design?""
"She did. And through the trust, you now hold the rights to the original collection. Your interpretation is also independently protected by your design registration.""
He handed me a document.
At the top was my name.
Nia Carter.
Beneath it was a formal acknowledgment of ownership.
I felt my eyes sting.
For the first time in my life, an official document described me as something other than someone's daughter.
I was the owner.
The creator.
The rightful successor.
But Harrison wasn't finished.
"There is one more thing.""
He opened a small black case.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed my grandmother standing in the Carter Atelier on the night it closed.
My mother stood beside her.
And behind them was Edward Whitmore.
But there was something else.
On the table was a red velvet box.
The same box my mother had kept in her bedroom for years.
I leaned forward.
"What's in that box?""
Harrison studied my expression.
"Your grandmother's original ownership seal.""
I frowned.
"I don't understand.""
"It was removed from the studio during the final transfer. Without it, certain documents could not be authenticated through the original archive.""
I looked at the photograph again.
My mother was holding the box.
My grandmother's letter suddenly made sense.
The silver pendant wasn't merely an identification code.
It was part of a two-part authentication system.
The pendant identified the beneficiary.
The seal verified the original collection.
And my mother had one of them.
Harrison placed a document on the table.
"Your grandmother suspected Denise would eventually attempt to sell the collection again. She left instructions that the archive could only be opened when both authentication items were presented.""
I touched the pendant.
"So we need the box.""
"Yes.""
"Then I'll get it.""
Harrison shook his head.
"Not so quickly. Your mother knows what that box contains. If she realizes you've contacted me, she may destroy it.""
I looked at him.
"She wouldn't destroy something that valuable.""
He gave me a sad smile.
"Your grandmother once said the same thing.""
My phone buzzed.
A message from Maya.
*Maya:* Nia, you need to see this immediately.
She had attached a photograph.
It showed Brianna standing on a small stage in a hotel ballroom.
She was wearing my gown.
A microphone was positioned in front of her.
Beside her stood my mother, smiling proudly.
The photograph had been posted on Brianna's social media account just minutes earlier.
The caption read:
Years of passion, sacrifice, and creativity finally paying off. My first original couture design is almost ready for the world.
My stomach dropped.
The comments were already filling with congratulations.
Someone had tagged the Bellamy Fashion Foundation.
Another person had written:
This deserves New York Fashion Week.
I zoomed in.
Brianna was holding a certificate.
I could barely read the text.
But I recognized the logo.
The Bellamy Foundation.
"They're presenting it today," I whispered.
Harrison stood.
"Then we need to act immediately.""
I grabbed my bag.
As I reached the door, he called after me.
"Nia.""
I turned.
"Whatever happens, do not confront your mother without recording everything. She has already demonstrated that she is willing to fabricate documents.""
I nodded.
Then he handed me a small envelope.
"Your grandmother left this for you. I was instructed to give it to you only after you had seen the photograph.""
I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph of my grandmother wearing the original version of The Last Bloom.
She looked younger, confident, and radiant.
On the back were seven handwritten words.
The flowers are hiding more than you know.
I looked up.
Harrison was watching me carefully.
"What does that mean?""
He shook his head.
"I was hoping you could tell me.""
I glanced at the pendant.
Then something clicked.
The gown's hidden compartment wasn't the only thing I had created.
While restoring the wine stain, I had noticed an unusual pattern in the original embroidery.
Three flowers near the lower back were arranged differently from the others.
At first, I thought it was simply an artistic choice.
But my grandmother's photograph showed the same arrangement.
Three flowers.
One larger than the others.
I had copied it without knowing why.
Now I wondered whether she had been leaving a message.
I pulled out my phone and called Maya.
"Can you get into my studio?""
"Yes. Why?""
"I need the original sketchbook. The one with Grandma's flower pattern.""
"Okay. What am I looking for?""
"Three flowers. One large, two small. Find the first drawing.""
I heard her moving things around.
Pages rustled.
Then she stopped.
"Nia?""
"What?""
"There's something written underneath the sketch.""
My heartbeat quickened.
"What does it say?""
Maya read slowly.
"September 14, 1994. The night the studio was sold.""
I closed my eyes.
"Keep going.""
"There's a second sentence.""
Her voice became quieter.
"Denise took the seal. Edward took the money. But neither of them took the original.""
I gripped the phone.
"The original what?""
Maya turned a page.
"Nia, there's another drawing.""
"What drawing?""
"The back of the pendant.""
I looked down at the silver pendant resting against my chest.
Maya continued.
"There's a tiny inscription. It says...""
She stopped.
"What? Maya, what does it say?""
A moment passed.
Then she whispered:
"Open the flower.""
I stared at the pendant.
The little silver flower at its center had always looked decorative.
I had worn it every day since my grandmother gave it to me.
I turned it carefully between my fingers.
There was a tiny seam along its edge.
My breath caught.
I pressed the center.
A soft click sounded.
The pendant opened.
Inside was a folded piece of paper, no larger than a grain of rice.
My fingers trembled as I unfolded it.
There was a handwritten number.
And beneath it, a name.
*EDWARD WHITMORE — ORIGINAL BENEFICIARY.*
I looked at Harrison.
He had gone completely still.
"Mr. Vale?""
He slowly stood.
"That can't be possible.""
"What does it mean?""
He stared at the tiny paper in my hand.
Then he looked toward the photograph of my grandmother on his wall.
His voice dropped.
"It means your grandmother may have been protecting something much more valuable than her fashion collection.""
My phone rang.
It was Brianna.
I answered.
Her voice sounded different.
No smugness.
No laughter.
Just panic.
"Nia, listen to me. You need to come to the hotel.""
"Why?""
"Mom says the dress is mine, but something is wrong.""
"What happened?""
Brianna swallowed.
"The foundation's legal team just arrived.""
I closed my eyes.
Then she said the words that made my blood run cold.
"They've found something inside the dress.""
May you like
A pause.
"Something with your grandmother's name on it.""
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